Underfoot
by Stephane Richer
Summary: The basketball season winds down; he shoots hoops on his own or plays on the street for a little extra money. Some days, he just runs, though.


Underfoot

Disclaimer: Don't own.

* * *

Tatsuya turns sixteen and gets his driver's license, but he's got no car and nowhere to drive to, anyway. Sometimes he goes out running early in the morning but he's always running from something, not to something, to somewhere. He gets home late from practice and it's already dark, more due to the extra time he spends shoving the ball away and trying to send some memories with it than from the seasonal darkness.

It rains on Christmas. He wonders what it would be like if the winters here were snowy the way they are in pictures, in snow globes. Maybe that's what he needs, snow. The dismal sounds of cars driving on the wet road do nothing to ease the dull ache inside of him. He needs to get out, to get out of here, to leave everything behind, to run away and actually get somewhere else.

It's easier said than done, of course. And he knows he can't run away forever, but it's not like he's avoiding things he can confront. How can you confront a memory? Taiga (it hurts him to even think his name still) is not here. He left last spring; Alex had told him even though he hadn't asked.

She is still here, still teaches him whether he wants to learn or not, but at some point he's got to grow up. He's got to throw himself into the water and see if he can swim or not. He dreams of swimming through snow, of coldness and softness, wonders when he wakes if this is what it feels like. He's heard about the tough Canadian high school basketball schedule, the sheer amount of games they play. It's an appealing notion, playing until he can't think anymore, until he collapses every night, dead tired in an unfamiliar place, sterile with the lack of painful memories.

It's just a pipe dream, though; transferring in the middle of high school is pretty much unheard of. His parents are secure in their jobs and won't be moving, and they probably don't have the money to send him somewhere else. So he's reached an impasse, where he's uncomfortable and miserable but he can't do anything but wait a few years when he can go to college and leave this dreadful city and warm weather behind him. It feels like an eternity; he's only a sophomore—in two and a half years he might become someone completely different (two and a half years ago, he was someone completely different). He wants to spirit away the him who exists now, to take him someplace cold where the air will make it hard to breathe, not his mind.

He talks to the guidance counselor about summer abroad programs (because that's better than nothing, even if it's helping out on a farm in Venezuela where it's plenty warm) and the guidance counselor mentions the school's exchange program. They've got sister schools in Mexico and Japan; all three of them are part of some international Catholic school association, and he's welcome to do one of those and before he can ask any questions the counselor dumps a shitton of paper in his hands and pushes him out of the door.

Come to think of it, this sounds familiar—something they talk about during assemblies when they're not talking about the bible or school sporting events. The rain pours off the bus shelter and onto the top of his head and he wonders where exactly in Japan this place is. It doesn't snow in Mexico, does it? Besides, he only knows rudimentary Spanish and his parents have been sending him to Japanese lessons so he'd learn to write properly since before he can remember. He's never had much of a desire to visit his relatives there more often than the few times his parents have taken him, but those few times were relatively pleasant. Taiga's there, yes, but the bad memories aren't, and Taiga could be on the complete other side of the country, couldn't he? There's a good chance they'll never meet. And if they do, it might be easier away from everything.

As for his parents, well, they're always working and they've never been particularly overbearing or overinvolved. And plane tickets aside, it wouldn't be much more expensive than his tuition already is. So maybe this will work—Tatsuya allows himself the smallest fraction of hope. As he's trudging to the front door in the rain, the memories catch up to him again and he wishes it didn't take so long to dig around in his coat pocket for the keys.

* * *

"Akita, that's in the north of Japan, right?" says Alex.

"Yeah," he says.

She reaches out and ruffles his hair; he reflexively ducks and winces but she's too fast for him. Maybe by the time he comes back, she won't see him as just a kid anymore; maybe she'll see him as a person.

"The school year starts in the spring, though; how's that going to work?"

Tatsuya shrugs. "They'll work things out. It's been done before."

It's sunny today; it's warm enough to wear shorts and flip flops even in February. He's going to miss this café a little, the way the biscotti crumbles between his fingers so it's not really a viable option to dip it in the coffee unless you want a layer of crumbs at the bottom of the cup (but it's delicious, so it's worth it). He's going to miss her, even though he resents her kindness. She probably knows but does not pay it any mind, still radiates warmth. Part of him wants to be able to do that, but more of him just wants to keep to himself because people, through no fault of their own, will leave him and betray him and that's the way it is. He wouldn't be able to stand it—but here he is, leaving her.

"I'm just being a selfish coward again, aren't I? Running away because I can't face myself?" His laugh is fifty times more bitter than the coffee.

She reaches for his hand from across the table (it's now so much smaller than his). "Tatsuya, you're so hard on yourself."

He looks down, but her other hand reaches across and tilts his chin upward again.

"No, look at me. I know you might not want to hear it, but you can't always take the blame for everything. You say you're selfish, but you don't let yourself be happy. It's okay to give yourself a break, to want to start over."

"But I _am_ selfish."

"Well, you're the only one who knows what's on your mind. Even I can't tell a lot of the time. But don't hate yourself for feeling like any other human being would. And here's your chance to change, so take it. Go to Akita; find yourself; figure it out; do whatever you need to. I love you the way you are now, but that won't change even if you do. You know that, right?"

He squeezes her hand. She smiles; it's not fake or just an attempt to make either of them feel better. His throat hurts.

"Just don't burn all of your bridges, okay?"

"I'll come back," he says. He wants to say he's already burned so many of them already and that's why he needs a plane to come and get him out of here, but it's not worth talking about now. He's sick of this regret; it's tedious to even think about it let alone talk about it.

She hugs him; her grip is tight and strong and he's surprised that his face is on the level of her neck now (perhaps he shouldn't be, but he didn't think he was growing this fast). Even so, it's hard to lean on her unwavering support. It's almost like a burden—he needs to be free of the good things as well as the bad.

Sadness presses on his chest, a yearning to just stop right here and withdraw the application; so does the urge to go where no one knows his name and face, where he knows no one else's, where the blemishes can be covered in a coating of frozen water.

* * *

The basketball season winds down; he shoots hoops on his own or plays on the street for a little extra money. Some days, he just runs, though.

He runs because he's hit a wall; he's at the place where the amount he can make his shots any better, his passes any crisper, his sprint speed any faster, is negligible. He's obviously very good, but this shouldn't be his limit. He's nowhere near the all-time greats, and perhaps he never can be. Perhaps the learning curve has finally failed him; maybe this is it. And he runs down the familiar sidewalks and tries to sweat off his doubts.

He runs because he loves it here as much as he hates it, because even though there's so much here he hates there's so much he loves and so much he's going to miss, so much he might not be able to find a substitute or replacement for. There are good memories as well as bad; there are routines he's become attached to; there are the shadows the late afternoon sun makes on the street and the candy shop that still sells baseball cards from the 1980s that come with bubble gum that's long since expired. He runs to feel the lumps of spat-out gum on the pavement, the cracks in the asphalt of the street, the angles of the hills, even though they will be the first things he forgets. The bad memories, the ones that cut the deepest cracks—those will stay with him wherever he is, even when they don't hurt as much. The weight of the ring around his neck, only increasing the faster he runs, is proof of that.


End file.
